


I'd Be Lost Without My Blogger

by RLMoran



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-22 06:30:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7423729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RLMoran/pseuds/RLMoran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is finally over the tragic events of ten years ago, however when two ghosts from the past return his world comes crumbling down once again.</p><p>(Sequel to I'd Be Lost Without My Lover)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"It is quite clear that this death was a suicide."

"I beg to disagree Sherlock. All the evidence points to murder."

"Oh forget your evidence," Sherlock sighed as his phone buzzed. He squinted with annoyance at the bright message from his brother flowing up at him.

The usual place.

"Looks like I'll be going Lestrade," he gave him a forced smile before turning towards the door.

"What about the case?" Lestrade called after him, and with no reply Sherlock exited Barts and hailed a taxi.

Only a few moments later Sherlock entered Mycroft's office. Slowly he looked around, appraising the odds and ends that filled the room.

"Glad to see you made it," Sherlock turned on his heels and grimaced at his brother.

"What could be so impor-"

"She's back Sherlock," Sherlock's words were cut short and his face dropped, eyes turning to glass. "I just received pictures of her returning from America," he slid a image across his desk towards Sherlock.

It showed a pale woman, her hair a very light blond only about the length of her chin, her blue eyes cold and cruel. Any warmth that lived in his sister's heart before she left and tore his life down was gone. She looked like a weapon, and they both knew that was exactly what she was.

"When?" Sherlock's voice was hardly a whisper.

"This morning. Someone here in London employed her, encouraging her to make her silent but threatening return," while Mycroft's voice was calm and snide, his eyes showed something far different. Fear. 

"I assume you are asking me to find whoever employed her," Sherlock stated, clearing his throat in the process.

"You know me so well, brother dear," the title was mocking and caused Sherlock to cringe. Slowly a more serious look, if that was even possible, fell upon Mycroft's face. "How are you doing Sherlock?" Sherlock didn't need to ask what would cause his brother to make such an inquiry.

"That was years ago," Sherlock forced out his own version of a laugh. "There isn't even a scar left over."

"We both know that's not true," their eyes locked, leaving Sherlock with a sinking feeling as he exited the building.

As he did so he nearly knocked over a stout man. His face was puggy but kind and Sherlock recognized him quite quickly.

"My apologies Stumpford," Sherlock gestured, patting him on the back.

"Oh dear, that's alright Sherlock. I haven't seen you in ages," the man let out a heartfelt laugh, and the best Sherlock could do was force another smile, something he could do quite well. "How have you been?"

"Oh same as usual. Looking for a new flat mate, one can hardly afford London on their own," for once his chuckle was sincere. "Let alone one who could possibly handle me as a flat mate."

"Well I'll keep an eye out for someone who could possibly tolerate you," he returned Sherlock's gentle pat on the shoulder. "See you some other time then," he huffed before totering off away from Sherlock, leaving him alone with the deep nagging feeling he felt every day of his life.  
_____________________________________________

Sorry this is short. Its just kinda to get things locked off as I get used to how I wrote the first fic again. Hopefully I can make it as good as the last one. Things will pick up soon I can sure promise you that.


	2. Chapter 2

Quietly, Sherlock sat alone at a local café, desperately trying not to let his icy exterior crumble. He had sorted out his life and everything was alright now. 

Everything.

With a single sigh he closed his eyes, melting into his own mind and reliving the events of ten years ago. Through everything that once meant the world to him and now only brought him pain.

It was silent for some time, but the silence made it easier to detect when someone slipped into the padded booth across from him. Daring to open his eyes he was met by cruel blue daggers of ice, boring deeply into him, accompanied by a knowing smirk.

"Reliving the past, brother mine," just as before the nickname is mocking. 

"How'd you know?" Sherlock questioned calmly as he looked Cassandra up and down.

She had become quite thin, even thinner than she once was. The brightness in her eyes seemed to have faded, leaving cruel, icy, metal like eyes. As in the picture their was no joy or warmth left in them, only hatred and despair. His sister had finally broken. Mycroft had predicted when Cassandra was very young that she would grow up to become a weapon, and it was up to them to decide who wielded her.

"I noticed your eyes, moving beneath your eyelids," her smirk widened. "Like you were desperately looking for something."

"Who hired you?" The question shot out without a single thought.

"Who said I was hired?" Cassandra scoffed.

"Oh please" Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes, leaving forward in his seat. "You wouldn't be back in London unless someone hired you. Soon someone will notice who you are and call you in."

Cassandra's lips twisted up into a wicked smile before a light chuckle floated through the air.

"No one here is looking for me Sherly," she continued to chuckle. "I'm not wanted. The only people who knew what I did was our tight knit little family," the words tight knit fell from her lips like stones, the words stuck in her throat like a sticky poison. Their family was anything but.

"I still know you Cass," Sherlock's gaze softened. "You wouldn't return to London without good reason. Now who hired you?"

Her features softened, her cruel smile dropping into a frown, a hint of cool, dampered warmth filled her eyes.

"Have you seen him?" she whispered.

Sherlock's back went ridged, his breath catching and heart stopping. No he had not seen him, except for the one day when he was leaving a case, and he never wanted to see him again.

"He was released from the Army," Cassandra watched her brother's expression closely. "He got shot."

She watched Sherlock's body tense, muscles in his neck straining, his temple pulsing. As much as Sherlock claimed he had recovered from that day, it was quite clear some bad feelings had never left.

Silent, she waited for him to speak, waited for the wave of tension to wash from his face and for his cold facade to return. She knew how difficult this was for him, but she knew it was a matter that needed confronted.

When she had pulled that trigger a couple years back and sent Sherlock's life up in a plume of smoke, she had spared them both a terrible heartache. Had John retained his memory and been moved back out to the country their stress and depression would have multiplied with the distance, possibly causing Sherlock to attempt suicide once more and John to spiral into a deep pit of despair he could have never climbed out of. While the pain of distance and separation was far too much for Sherlock to bare, Cassandra knew that he could handle the pain of forgetting. He always had. The day she pulled that trigger she knew what she was doing. It wasn't out of malice or cruelty. Her and Jim had figured out everything perfectly, and while destroying so much they actually spared people and saved Sherlock's life. The price of their triumph was hatred by all and becoming outcasts. Everyone saw their deeds as a crime and a terroristic act, but the truth was they were simply sparing what they could. She knew when she pulled that trigger, she wasn't only destroying Sherlock's life, she was damning her own.

"Cass," Sherlock finally uttered shakily. "You don't have to do this. You can come home and fix all of this."

She only sighed and shook her head. 

"I can't. And my name is Moran now," the sharp coldness returned to her eyes, her lips setting in a firm, unmoving line. "Cassandra died ten years ago," and with those final words she slipped from the booth and got to her feet. "We'll be in touch brother mine," Sherlock watched as with silent and stealth like ease she slipped from the café, no one even turning to cast an acknowleding glance upon her.

Through the window he watched her walk across the street and cutting down an alley, disappearing from sight just as a sandy haired man passed through his line of sight.


	3. Chapter 3

Cassandra slipped down the alley and as she did she felt the pressure of Sherlock's gaze peel off her back. A slight sigh of relief left her lips as she pulled her phone from her pocket. She dialed a number slowly as she slipped through a slight crowd. As it rang she pressed it to her ear.

"Did you find him?"

...

"I already spoke to Sherlock. Not like he didn't already know I was back so quit worrying about me."

...

"Yes boss."

Cassandra hung up the phone and turned to the crowd of people. Gently, she slipped through a few of the taller men in the back of the group. When she reached a stout puggy man she stood up on her tiptoes and grimaced slightly. Before them lied a human corpse. A man approximately in his early thirties, his face was completely bashed in. Curious, she tapped the shoulder of the man in front of her.

"Excuse me, sir," she inquired as he turned to face her. "What happened here?"

He huffed slightly, concern riddled his features. He directed her gaze by casting his own eyes upwards.

"Poor bloke just fell from the roof, his face all battered, clothes torn," his eyes fell back to Cassandra's. "Obviously murdered. Gonna need a detective. And not just any detective."

Cassandra obviously knew of who he was hinting towards. Her dear old brother.

"Quite," she sighed before slipping out of the crowd and heading the rest of the way down the alley.

\----------

Moments later Cassandra slipped into a sleek black car. Across from her sat a devilish looking man who could steal the heart of any woman.

"There's my lost kitten," he purred. "It's been so long."

"Ten years Jim," she looked deep into his chocolate brown eyes.

"And my feelings haven't changed a bit," he reached his hand across the gap between them and placed it on her thigh. Her lips twitched upwards slightly. "Are you ready for this Moran?"

As much as she had discouraged him about calling her by that name she had just come to except it. Moran was her name now. Cassandra was dead.

"Of course," she whispered just as they pulled up in front of an old but familiar warehouse. In unison they stepped from the car and began to walk toward the building. "There's no way he came willingly," Cassandra remarked. "So how'd you get him here?"

Moriarty only smirked in reply, a sign that is was for only him to know. 

Once inside Cassandra couldn't help but feel a slight bit of guilt. The last time she had been in this building she had chosen her side, lost a brother, and separated a beautiful relationship. After a moment of remembrance her eyes fell to the sandy blonde man tied to a chair in the center of the room. He looked shockingly calm, but she supposed the army would do that to a man. She walked up in front of him and squatted just enough to be at eye level with him. 

"Do you remember me?" asking the question seemed meaningless to her for when she entered the room she noticed no glint of recognition in his eyes.

"Should I?" He spat in return.

Slowly Cassandra raised a picture, about to continue questioning him as Moriarty watched.

"Do you recognize this boy?" It was an old picture of Sherlock from Christmas. The bruises prominent on his face, Cassandra herself  was at his side, bruised and beaten but smiling like a child all the same. The man gave no response so she held up a current picture of Sherlock. "How about this man?" The slightest glint of recognition filled his eyes and Cassandra's stomach sank. If he remembered anything they would have to kill him.

"I saw him a while back. He was just starring at me as I walked down the street," he licked his lips anxiously. "Now what do you want from me?"

Cassandra sighed and put away the photographs. They were safe for now. She watched as the mans eyes looked her up and down before he cocked an eyebrow. 

"I've seen you on the telly," he grunted. "Some assassin from America. By god what are you doing in London?"

"If only you knew John," she stated coldly.

"Hey, how do you-," but before he could finish a needle was plunged into his neck and he was out cold.

"He won't remember any of this," Moriarty grunted. "Time to get him back to his apartment."

Cassandra stood and watched as John was carted off by two of Moriarty's men. For a brief moment John remembered her. But not who she was when they first met, but who she became so long after. She scoffed slightly at her own fortune. She had been right indeed. Cassandra was dead, and Moran was all that remained.


End file.
